A Dauntless Compassion
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: "Do you know him [Four] well?" "Everyone knows Four. We were initiates together. I was bad at fighting, so he taught me every night after everyone was asleep. . . Nice of him." During initiation, during the middle of the night, Shauna and Four have a fighting practice session.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Divergent. So yesterday me and my three buddies went to see Divergent in theaters. We got the entire theater to ourselves and my best friend and I pretty much held our breaths and clutched each other for dear life during Fourtris scenes (or almost any time Theo James came on screen. :O). It was an all-right movie; I was able to separate the movie and the book so I could enjoy them both, and so had a good time.  
**

**So thus, I have been inspired to write Divergent fics. Here is the first to (hopefully) many! :)**

**~ Four's point of view ~**

I don't wish to go home, back to Abnegation. No, but I wish for the privacy that monotonous house provided. Other times, I've ached for someone to know and to reveal the pain hidden behind gray walls, but other times I only welcomed the solitude of my room. After Marcus left, I was all alone. And the solitude was my escape from him.

It is so different, here in Dauntless. It's past midnight and I'm supposed to sleep in a room echoing with the snores of a dozen initiate-transfers. We're all mixed factions, though girls to one side and guys on the other. Each one fell asleep after their conversations with their old faction members dissipated into silence. Everyone was so loud when they gathered on the roof for us to jump; but after facing their fears in their fear landscapes, each one has been scared into reality.

I examine my hands in the light of a broken light bulb that keeps flickering in the dank corner. The edges of my knuckles are coated in thick, harsh pink. Clotted blood fills in the cracks and wrinkles of my skin. Bruises pepper them; my hands are mesmerizing to me. They're so colorful from defense; they bear the marks of me fighting against Mia, against Eric, and beating him. I remember his face as he pressed his hands against the floor; the marks I left on his face will be quick to mark him as a loser. Everyone clapped and cheered after that. But I felt nothing like victory; but I felt like I had won a battle for once in my life. Cruelty is something I notice amongst the Dauntless members, and pride and arrogance. But I hold none of those traits, except for pride. I don't feel cruel or victorious or arrogant because I have taken down one of my best opponents. I feel like I've escaped, that winning was the only option, and fighting Eric wasn't something I would've wanted to do if I hadn't had to.

I had to fight Eric, though. Eyes were attentive to my every move; and I wouldn't be proved to be a Stiff. I defended myself like I never had. But I didn't feel like Marcus must have every time he closed my door shut with a soft pull. I did only what I had to do; nothing more.

I've found that sleeping is the best way to escape the pressure of Dauntless initiation. But I can't sleep; I toss and turn and agitate bruises that are old and new. Dawn cracks and I stare at the ceiling, my eyes bloodshot. It's time wasted, time I can use to do something else; but there is nothing to do around Dauntless compound past midnight; at least, not for an initiate. According to Amar and the conversations I've overheard at the Dauntless cafeteria tables, there are fight clubs that happen at night. Prized fighters are bet on; it's a business here in Dauntless.

I don't treasure watching a fight; I'm a coward, in that way. I find the best way to protect myself and then hate taking down my opponent. That is how I fight and view fighting.

But I won't allow my skills to be put to waste.

Which all fits in with a last piece of information: I know someone else who can't fall asleep.

I pull out my new black sneakers from under my bed and lace the strings around my feet. I ease myself up and the soreness, as it usually hadn't under the roof of Marcus, feels good. I've earned creaky limbs and lactic-acid filled muscles.

The light bulb flickers as I place a hand against the doorway out of the initiate-transfers' dormitories. The halls of Dauntless are all shadows and dark, dank, broken up only by the presence of scattered blue light bulbs that illuminate the paths. I check my watch and go walking. They're clear of Dauntless guards, who I learn stay nearer to the edges of the compound instead of the dormitories. They don't watch for transfers to sneak out. Probably think we're scared out of our minds and curled up in bed wishing for Mommy.

Amar had given me a tour around the Dauntless compound a few days ago. Nobody saw this as a strange favoritism as they knew that I was a sudden Dauntless prodigy. 'Four,' a Stiff with only four fears. They clapped me on the back and congratulated me as I followed Amar around. I didn't say anything in either thanks or comment as Amar kept the conversation going. Maybe I always will be a little Stiff, despite being in Dauntless. Amar is surprisingly talkative and I'm reminded of a Candor by the way he can keep talking no matter what. But it isn't an uncomfortable thing. It's almost comforting, in a strange way, because he finds me friendly enough to talk about anything around me. I find it strange, and yet I appreciate it.

Yesterday, as she coughed up blood from a bite inside her cheek, I leaned next to her ear and asked her if she wanted to practice. I can't help it if my Abnegation shows through. I felt a mix of pity and dismissal. Shauna is a Dauntless-born initiate, and yet a short, stoic guy by the name of Zeke knocked her down with a cold punch to the jaw. She stared at me with such a look of shock I felt my cheeks grow warm, and I wanted to turn away. But I kept her eyes; turning away shows submission, and I wouldn't let my new-found fame diminish.

She said at a quarter past midnight.

So I walk down through the network of tunnels through Dauntless and make my way to the training room. I walk in without hesitating, knowing that lights would've been on if any Dauntless were here punching bags. I switch a light on to reveal the bags full of sand, the knife-throwing targets, the wrestling ring.

I kick off my shoes then and stand at the edge of the wrestling ring. Blood stains that won't wash out stand as marks of pain and affliction for all to see; a sign of victory for the winners and a sign of weakness from the losers. Dauntless has a way of constantly reminding us that the weak won't stand a chance. There are winners and there are losers, and the losers _will _become factionless.

I hear her footsteps before she says anything. I've learned to pick up the slightest sound; footsteps are all too familiar to me. Marcus's usually would echo down our tiny hall and I'd hold my breath and count silently before he opened the door. I do it now and demand myself to lose the habit as Shauna comes in. She's short, with brown hair down to her shoulder. Her cheekbones are sharp and she's pretty. But I feel nothing. Nothing but the need to keep her alive in Dauntless. Because I've felt the sting of being selfish here in Dauntless, thinking only of myself, and it's my inherent need to help someone else as well. She is a surprising choice, seeing her history in this faction, but I don't care. I don't see her as anyone but a fellow initiate who needs help. And I've been taught that those who need help should receive help, no matter who they are.

"Four," she says, nodding. She puts down a bag and begins to dig through it. She pulls out a hair tie and pulls her hair back before she approaches the wrestling ring. Her eyes go back and forth before they look at me. Her face is covered with marks; she's covered the worst with makeup, but she applied too much. She is covered in powder.

"I don't want that to ever happen again," she says.

I nod.

"I'm Dauntless. I should be able to perform like a Dauntless, not like a transfer. No offense."

"None taken," I say.

She steps into the ring and says, taking a deep breath, "Did you know that in the old days, people used to wrap their hands up in cloth before they fought, because they wanted to keep their hands neat and pretty?"

I step into the ring, say, "They didn't mean to fight so hard and dirty, then."

"What's the point of fighting if there is no evidence of a victory?" Shauna asks.

I don't say anything; don't know if that is a question aimed directly at me with an answer in expectation, or if she is being rhetorical. But I believe that fighting isn't made to separate the strong from the weak. It's supposed to prepare one for defense of themselves. Each of us are strong and weak in different areas. Shauna being factionless will be a heavy weight on me if I don't help her. Just because she can't take down a guy twice as thick as her doesn't mean she doesn't have the heart of a Dauntless. But that is what the Dauntless believe. So I will help her because she does, honestly, value the virtues of Dauntless that I myself believe in.

Shauna plants her feet on predetermined places on the mat. Her arms jerk into a fighting stance.

I hold another trait from Abnegation; the Abnegation observe. I memorized and concentrated on every word and demonstration Amar gave us. I recognize her position and come behind her. My hands shake slightly but I will them to stop as they reach out and sharpen her position. "Your arms should be higher. They usually aim for your face, and that is the least defended. Protect that part of your body. If your head is hurt, you're down for the count." My fingers pull her arms farther apart. "Giving them no room to come in is a good thing, but you have to fight them as well. Keep your arms ready to move."

"How do you know so much?" Shauna says, not moving after I've repositioned her. "I know you're our newest Dauntless prodigy, yeah, but you've been here for barely a week. What'd they teach you in Abnegation?"

"To stay silent," I say.

She shuts her mouth.

Her legs are spread from her shoulders, so she is ready. I stand opposite from her, my fingers curled into fists, my thumb pressed against the outside of them. I saw that one of the other initiates, Lance, broke his thumb because he kept it hidden by a wall of bones inside his curled fingers. One punch to his opponent's stomach and he was down, screaming into his teeth.

Now we're ready to fight.

I know her head is now protected, so I aim for her stomach, keeping my feet moving. Her first mistake is not hitting me first. In order to train her right, I have to hit hard to prove a point. So she hisses and absorbs the punch. Then I go for her side; she shifts her arms down, leaving her head vulnerable. She suffers a hit to the head.

"Hit me first, Shauna," I say.

"Shut up, Four," she growls.

Then she goes for my stomach, knowing I'm too tall for her to make a significant punch to my head. I bend out of the way and she retaliates by switching to my other side and landing a punch on me. Then she goes underhanded, bringing her fists up from near her hips and pummeling me up, keeping her head down, her breathing harsh, like I'm a punching bag she is trying to put a dent in.

She's bent over and I reach over her shoulder and land a hit against her small back. She groans and nearly falls to her knees, but she lands on her thigh and rolls away, bringing herself up at the edge of the ring.

"Be faster, Shauna. You're smaller, so you have to be faster if you want to make a mark," I say.

She kneels there for three seconds before she flies up with a Dauntless determination; her face is blank as she moves fast, sure, against me. She aims for my face and I duck and she lands a knee to my thigh. I raise an eyebrow as I feel the sharp, resounding pain, and then risk vulnerability as I land punches against both of her sides. She groans and her face screws up. Then she stomps her foot on the inside of my foot. I step back on my good leg and curse. She wipes her bruised hand against her forehead and laughs.

"You're really turning Dauntless now, Stiff," she says. She grins, a nick from a previous fight bleeding now on her lip. "Come at me."

She delights in fighting me, and it's not the Dauntless arrogance or need for pain I see in her as the hours slowly bleed away into the night. It's the taste of success she tastes, a piece of Dauntless every initiate wants to feel, and she welcomes my competition.

It's near four AM when we sit on the edge of the ring together. A fan waves above our heads, making the heavy, copper-laced air stir around us. Our hands are a sad, beautiful sight. Shauna brings out a first aid kit from her bag and we sit side by side as we steep our hands in stinging alcohol and cut strips of bandages of gauze with our teeth.

"How'd you learn to fight so well?" Shauna asks. "Abnegation?"

She says it as a joke, but it is the truth. I've memorized the calculated moves of Marcus, all of which were mastered by time. I know all the places where it hurts the most, where to quickly put your opponent down with the least amount of effort. But I say, chewing on my lip a moment, "I paid attention to training. Something that would do you well to do."

Shauna laughs. For some reason, it makes me smile a little. Anyone but the Dauntless and the Candor would be hurt by my words. But I've found that the Dauntless can find humor in cold words. Humor isn't allowed in Abnegation. It gives one a sense of camaraderie when someone laughs at your joke here, though.

Her smile fades, though, as her eyes fall on her hands. "We should probably get some sleep," she says.

"Who do you think we'll fight tomorrow?" I say. We've got nearly two dozen initiates to choose from.

She shrugs. "Maybe each other. At least now I know all your weak spots."

"Cheater," I say.

"I need all the help I can get, unlike you, _Four_," she says, shoving her shoulder against my shoulder. It could be a sign of aggression, but I recognize it now through Dauntless eyes as a sign of playful affection.

She stands up and offers me her beaten hand. I grip it tightly and she pulls me up. She gives me a hint of a smile and says, "You didn't have to do that. Help me. But thank you."

I nod, letting her hand go. "We'll see how you do tomorrow. See if you remember anything from tonight. Then we can work on your missteps tomorrow night."

"Who says I'll have missteps tomorrow?" she says, folding her arms.

"I _did _beat you tonight. . ."

She lands a punch against my arm and then says, waving her hand away as if to fling the pain off of it, "Don't count on doing it again, Four."

"I hope not," I say.

She gathers her first aid kit as I lace my shoes back on. My fingers protest in pain as I stretch them and will them to work despite the pain. I've been taught that pain is meant to teach a lesson. From what I've learned from my childhood and continue to learn through Dauntless initiation, the real lesson you're taught is to fight through it and keep moving, keep pushing through it, despite it. My fingers work because I won't let myself allow the pain to become my master.

"See you tomorrow, Four," Shauna says. She switches off the fan and leaves.

"Good night, Shauna," I say, and I turn off the lights and head back to my dormitory to see if I have worked hard enough so exhaustion can overwhelm me and allow me to sleep. Unconsciousness is welcome now.

**Writing from Four's point of view is one of my favorite things to write. Thank you for reading, and I appreciate every review! :)**


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